November 2, 2011
Batman Vs. Osiris
Osiris, turquoise as the bat suit once was, cut like Skeletor before that steroid scandal stormed Castle Greyskull, eyes ice, mind mad, ride rad, doesn’t roll, no, he tsunamis into Gotham on a monsoon of scarabs, his entourage posh — undead headliners like Pac, like the last crush you left, and shouldn’t have. He takes the stage. No, he makes his own: the skyline his headlight eyes turn pyrite. The smog tries to mummy him up, but he pollutes the pollution. Imagine what he does then. I can’t. Then death happens. Then more. Then gore. Batman, batapult through the roof of the C-Note Casino. Osiris is o-shining its players to death. He does this uncool thing: gleams a deep, sea-on-Venus amethyst, and it burns through human skin like a curse, like birth reversed, it player-hates their spirits away like Pat Boone used to. Each ka, little, shriveled soul, whispers like papyrus on papyrus as it rises into this tight night. I know you don’t know what to do. I write an adze into your hand. You have no soul for him to kill. So dice this Osiris, like Diddy did “Kashmir,” but with these comic book sound effects, deader than Eliot’s: SKAK SKUKK SLISH You do. Blue goo is all you leave. And me. This has to be past finished. But this is the myth Osiris lives: That Set dismembers him, and Isis turns bling-bright with deep grief, and its tragic magic gives her this trick: stitching him back to life. So she careens in, her needle gold bone, her thread of some pimp sinew hissing as it lashes him back to himself. Bats, you have no anchor here; you can’t not sink. But flash that adze again and again, and again, she’ll Frankenstein her freak man back to life, back to the battle you need him to be, and by “you,” I mean “I.” But we can’t not try. Quote some Auden at him. “Poetry makes nothing happen.” What a fun thought, but nothing but nothing makes nothing happen. I buried some Berryman badly in the last stanza. Maybe he’ll zombie down here and eat this vampire punk’s brain. But you go it alone, don’t you? And none of these poets wrote what your blank look shows me you need: a simple, dumb hymn to the sun. Remember now, how it never left. And, chanting it, feel real heat. You do. I do, too. And in this abyss that was the high rollers’ paradise, watch that hot light march, bleach away the meat market of bodies he made lay still. It kills him because we can’t. We’re not written to. Now go home. Then rest. Then rise. Then shine. ***
In the spirit of our Epic Wins series, Chad Parmenter’s cycle of Batman poems will be appearing through the week. Image from Cyark.org.
EPIC WINS: SERIES INTRO by Matthew Battles | THE ILIAD (1.408-415) by Flourish Klink | THE KALEVALA (3.1-278) by James Parker | THE ARGONAUTICA (2.815-834) by Joshua Glenn | THE ILIAD by Stephen Burt | THE MYTH OF THE ELK by Matthew Battles | GOTHAMIAD by Chad Parmenter
What do you think?
“it player-hates their spirits away like Pat Boone used to” — !!!
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